


Ophelia in the Water, Iron Gauntlets Dragging Her Down

by Ranni



Category: Avengers, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Angst, Avengers Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mindfuck, Past Mind Control, Phil Coulson is still fake dead, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-HYDRA Reveal, Protective Phil Coulson, Suicide Attempt, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, dark content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 11:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10513059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranni/pseuds/Ranni
Summary: The Avengers' jet crashes, and maybe Clint and Tony are dead. Or maybe they're in comas, dreaming the same nightmare. Maybe someone is just messing with them. Whatever it is, Clint is spiraling out, and Tony is pretending not to as he tries to save them both.





	

*******  
It is loud, so very loud, as the jet plummets toward the ground.

Tony makes his way laboriously to the co-pilot's seat, his desperate progress made slow and nearly impossible by the pitching and rolling of the aircraft. Alarms of all kind scream, and they are almost as loud as the blood that rushes through his ears, the pounding of his heart. He can vaguely make out the murmur of JARVIS' mellow, modulated voice, calmly listing all the ways the jet is failing, all the ways they are heading toward destruction.

The muscles in Clint's arms bulge and strain as he struggles futilely to hold onto the controls, to do anything to bring them out of this free fall. He screams at Tony to sit down, to put his seatbelt on, and that is the most damning indicator of all: Clint being scared. His face is very white and his eyes are wide.

Tony looks at spinning dials, red blinking lights, ominously counting down numbers, and knows he can do nothing. He knew that already, before he even made it to the front. If there was anything that could be done to save them, Clint and JARVIS would have already done it.

But Tony Stark will always try to save the others. Always.

He belts in not one moment too soon, as one of the top panels rips off the jet, exposing a cheerfully blue sky and a crushing, invasive rush of air. Steve, Bruce, and Natasha, strapped in their seats, are pelted with objects small and large--everything that had not been secured seems to hit them before being sucked out into the expanse of sky.

Steve raises his hands to protect his eyes just as the first aid box hits him. A roll of gauze flies out to become a long streamer of white, looking for all the world like a kite tail, and the incongruity of the innocent image makes things all the more surreal. Bruce holds the arms of his seat in a deathgrip; his eyes are huge in a rapidly greening face, his chest growing and straining against shoulder straps. Natasha's hair flows out straight above her in the rushing wind, and her usually serene expression is replaced with an uncharacteristically frightened one. Her lips move soundlessly in the cacophony, but Tony can easily read the word there:

 _Clint_!  
  
Barton doesn't hear her call over the alarms, the punishing air. His hands move on the controls frantically, still trying, even now, to regain some control of the aircraft. The ground rushes up toward them in a spinning motion, and Clint and Tony's eyes meet one last time before everything goes suddenly, blessedly, quiet.  
  
*******

When Tony wakes up, he's standing in the Tower. It is empty, and cold.

There are no people anywhere. He calls out to JARVIS, and though his mouth moves his voice is a silent breath to which no answer comes. He hears nothing, not even his footfalls. No light comes in through the windows, and when he looks through them there is no city outside. No stars. No moon.

He runs from room to room, searching for anything, anyone, and when he realizes that there are no doors leading outside he begins to scream soundlessly.

*******

When he wakes up again he is kneeling at the side of a river, and he can't move. Everything is gray, woven into a mist, so thick that he can't make out any of the landscape outside of the river, which is long and stretches as far as he can see in either direction. Other people dot the riverbank on the same side as he, kneeling in the same manner he is, and one of them is Clint.

Clint.

Tony gasps in surprise as the young archer turns his head and their eyes lock. He looks terrified, just as he did as the jet was going down. "Tony?" he says thickly, confused.

"Yeah, it's me. Are you okay?" Tony laughs shakily, partly in giddy relief to see a familiar face and partly in despair that his nightmare seems to be continuing, albeit somewhat less horribly. "Hell, am _I_ okay?"

"The plane crashed," Clint says, and his eyes cast about in every direction, taking in the landscape around them. "And now we're...here."

"I'm not sure where 'here' is, actually. I feel like we should be waking up in the hospital. Or waking up _dead_. But I don't feel dead, do you, Tweetie Bird?"

"No?" There's an uncertain note in Clint's answer that Tony chooses to ignore.

"Alright then. Let's puzzle this out. First things first. I don't want to alarm you or anything, Tweets, but I can't move. I mean, I can move my arms and my upper body--" Tony does an exaggerated, sexy chest jiggle in Clint's direction to prove his point--"but I can't get up. Can't move otherwise."

"Me either." Clint glances down at the water, then does a doubletake, looking disturbed.

"What?"

"Nothing. I thought I saw something. But I didn't."

Tony sighs. Clint seems out of it, as foggy and remote as the world around them. Tony wonders briefly if maybe his friend has a head injury from the crash, then dismisses the idea. They had been sitting side by side in the nose of the jet, and Tony is completely uninjured. Feels just fine, in fact, other than being understandably confused by their current situation. If he's fine, then most likely Clint is also.

He _has_ to be, because Tony needs him to be. Needs Clint to hang in there, until Tony can figure a way to get them both out of this. Whatever _this_ is.

Tony leans back as far as he can, looking past Clint. There is a man on the other side of the archer, also kneeling, positioned in such a way that Tony can't see him very well. He can't make out his face, but he's certain that the man is neither Bruce or Steve.

Tony turns the other way and looks to his right to see a young woman kneeling beside him. It's not Natasha. He can't make out any of the people beyond her, can only see vague forms, again no faces.

The woman notices him watching her and gazes back at him with large, mournful eyes that are vaguely familiar. His mind goes into overdrive, trying to place her, but he's sure he has never seen her before.

"Who are you?" Tony asks with a frown, but she ignores the question.

"Have you seen my babies?" she asks fretfully, and her hands stretch out toward the water. "They're gone, I can't find them."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I haven't," he answers, and she makes a low moaning noise, covering her face with her hands.

"Where are they? I've lost them." She reaches out toward the water again, then turns her head toward the person who sits on the other side of her. "Have _you_ seen my babies?" he hears her ask. She turns back to Tony a moment later. "They're gone, I can't find them." Her eyes are large and pleading, filled with tears.

"Yeah, sorry about that, but I've got my own problems right now." Tony turns away from her the best he can, feeling unsettled. It's obvious she's not going to be a lot of help.

From the look on Clint's face, he probably won't be either.

*******

Clint is pretty sure that he is dead, that this is Hell, or some sort of limbo or purgatory at the very least. He says as much to Tony, who makes a frustrated noise and throws up his hands dramatically.

"What _is_ it with you and Hell, Tweetie? Knock that shit off. Stop being all doom and gloom, and let's figure a way out of this." And there's something comforting in the way Tony is the same as always, still sarcastic, still using nicknames, strategizing, even now when things are looking pretty bleak.

Bleak is the perfect word, actually. Clint doesn't think he has ever seen a more colorless, drab landscape than the one they are frozen in. If depression had a color, it would be the color of the river in front of them. If despair had a world of its own, it would be this one.

Tony is several meters to his right, too far to touch even if both of them reach an arm out. Kneeling to his left is a man Clint does not know. The man has dark hair, like Tony's, a mustache, and fierce, angry eyes. He wears a suit, obviously expensive, but years out of date. Clint doesn't know quite what to make of that, except to guess that the man has been here for awhile. The dark haired man stares at the water, muttering to himself and frowning. He glances at Clint once, his eyes moving up and down over Clint's face and clothes, then snorts dismissively and looks back toward the river.

"Who's that beside you?" Tony is asking, and Clint shakes his head and shrugs.

"I don't know, just some guy. Do you see any of the others?"

"No. I can really only see this lady beside me. She's a talker." Tony rolls his eyes theatrically, and Clint finds himself smiling a little.

He tries to get up, tries to move his legs, but they don't respond. He can feel them just fine; they don't even ache, and they really should, as long as he's been kneeling here on the ground in the same taut position. _Up, up, let me up_ , he thinks, and wills the muscles to move, but...nothing.

Yeah, Clint is pretty sure that he is dead.

*******

Tony is not sure how long they have been there, it feels like forever, when Clint suddenly startles and gasps, leans closer to the river. "Tony! There's...freaking _people_ in the water!"

"You're a crazy man. You're seeing things."

"I'm not! Look! Look right there!" He points frantically.

"Clint, you're having a breakdown. Pull yourself together," Tony says irritably, but he _does_ look, leans over the edge of the water, looking in.

He sees no rocks, no debris, no plants, no fish, no bubbles...no _anything_ that is a part of a normal river, but that's not a total surprise since he has long since surmised that they are not in a normal situation. Just sees clear water, running briskly past him. But then, out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of...something.

Clint's sharp eyes miss nothing, he sees it in Tony's expression, some subtle reaction. "What was it?" he demands. "Did you...did you see a little girl?" He tears his eyes from Tony's face and peers back down at the water.

"No. I didn't see anything."

It's a lie. He had seen a flash of Pepper, her pretty face frowning, her eyes disappointed. It was a look he knows very well. "What do _you_ think you saw, Clint?" he asks carefully, casually, as if the answer doesn't matter.

"People. People I knew." He glances up at Tony briefly, then back down. "You really didn't see anything? Really?" He sounds despondent at the thought.

"I didn't," Tony says smoothly. "I don't think you should look in there anymore, Clint." He snaps his fingers loudly when the archer does not respond, stays perfectly still, staring intently at the water in front of him. "You hear me, Barton? Don't look at it!"

Clint isn't listening. He abruptly leans forward, more movement than Tony was aware they could make, and rests his weight on his hands, face only inches above the current. "I see...I see fire," he says, and his voice is far away, dreamlike. "Fire in the water."

And Tony is suddenly terrified, and certain that the river is bad, very bad, that what they will see in there is terrible, will hurt them, will destroy them, and there's Clint, the dumb bastard, leaning in so close that his face is almost in it. "No, you _don't_ see anything! Sit back up! Right now! BARTON!"

The woman to his side suddenly twitches, looks frightened. "Have you seen my babies?" she asks again, her wavering voice a sigh in his ear.

"No!" Tony snaps at her. "Now hush up, you, unless you can actually help me." She looks away, tears leaking out of her blue-gray eyes, sobbing quietly. Tony turns back to Clint, who is sitting up again with a frown, then leaning over, trying to get a better look at her. "She's okay," Tony says. "She's just doing her thing again."

"I wish she would stop crying already."

"I don't think she can," Tony guesses, "but she's not our problem. Ignore her. Let's logic our way out of this shit, Barton. Come on, work with me. Start tossing out ideas. Nothing is off the table. Come on, throw them at me, and I'll bat 'em back."

Clint nods, seems to be trying to pull himself together a little. "The jet crashed. We're in the hospital. We're unconscious. We're in comas. This is a dream."

"We're in the same dream? I can _maybe_ accept that this is a nightmare, but you seem distressingly like the real, live Clint. So that would mean we're sharing the same dream. And if _that's_ the case, then we've gone deep into crazypants territory, and that means there is magic involved, or good old classic mindfuckery."

"There's no such thing as magic," Clint answers quickly, and is relieved when Tony does not mention Loki. This is definitely not the time or place for _that_ ; things are bad enough. "So that leaves...mindfuckery?" Clint grins crookedly.

"Yes! We crashed, but lived, got ironically captured. We are being held somewhere while some psy-power-wielding jerkface diddles his fingers around in our brains, making us believe we are trapped by the River Styx with a bunch of whiny assholes."

"I don't think this sounds like a terribly likely theory."

"I think it's just as plausible as your 'we died and went to Hell' theory. Maybe _more_ plausible, because I'm feeling pretty alive. Mindfuckery is a valid option. Admit it, you and I have seen some crazy things in this world, my friend."

"Yeah," Clint agrees readily, then looks over to the water again. He leans close to it, and a bad feeling stabs through Tony; he has a sudden terror of Clint reaching his hand into the water and getting pulled in, carried away.

"Don't!" he cries, and Clint, alarmed, immediately rocks back onto his heels. "That water is bad juju. You're seeing things in it, after all." He tries and fails to pass it off as a joke. Clint doesn't laugh. "Come on, Barton, stick with this--we're still logicking."

Clint gestures toward the other people that line the riverbank, as far as they both can see in either direction. "Everyone is watching the water. Maybe they see something. _I_ saw something. I'm not crazy. There's something happening in there."

Tony snorts and shakes his head derisively. "You're looney tunes."

But he pointedly does not look at the river.

*******

Many hours pass, maybe days. It's impossible to tell. Tony isn't hungry, thirsty, or tired, and he should be all of those things by now. His muscles are not sore, nothing hurts. He doesn't feel anything at all but anxious, worried.

He has a theory. It's not much, but it's something to hang onto, and God knows he needs that now, before he starts freaking out, like Barton. They need good things. All the good things they can think of.

Tony was right before; the water is a problem. And Clint had been right too; it shows them things. Even Tony cannot deny that now. It shows them awful things--bad memories, fears, dark ideations. The more Tony looks at it the worse he feels, the more he feels like throwing himself into it to be devoured.

So he deliberately looks away from it, purposefully dredges up every happy memory he can in counterpoint to it. Tries to get Clint to do the same, but his friend's eyes are drawn back to the water compulsively, like magnets.

"Don't look, remember? You see people in there? Those people are all dead. It's all memories, just bad memories."

"Just bad memories," Clint echoes absently, and his eyes shift to the water again.

"NO!" Tony shouts, and Clint, startled, looks back at him. " _Good_ things are the key to fighting it, right? Let's remember some good things." He slaps a grin onto his face, hopes like hell that it looks real. "Remember getting shawarma after New York? Remember how good it tasted? How good _everything_ tastes when you're exhausted, but alive? And then what happened?" His voice climbs in volume. "What happened when we were done eating? Hmmm? Remember? _Hawkeye_!" Tony snaps his fingers loudly and Clint jerks again.

In the distance Tony sees another figure look over sharply at him, and shake their head disapprovingly, unhappy to be roused out of their nightmarish reverie.

Clint words are slow, painfully slow, as if dragged out by unwilling hands. "We ate...and then..we realized...that..."--and there go his eyes again, surreptitiously glancing at the water--"...that...no one...had any... _money_!" he finishes triumphantly, sounding a bit more like himself. He makes a sound, maybe a loud exhale, maybe the ghost of a laugh.

*******

It is a good memory; they had been high off of the adrenaline from battle and had collapsed around the table, eaten like fiends. Tony ordered a second round of food on a whim, but that time they had only picked at their meal as their stomachs filled and exhaustion rapidly took over. All except Thor, who still ate heartily.

"Ugh," Bruce said finally, pushing his plate away. "No more. In fact, I may never eat again."

It was Natasha who realized first, or at least mentioned it first. "So, I hate to stiff you boys for the check, but I didn't bring my purse, and the catsuit doesn't have any pockets in it." She smiled, sphinx-like and completely unapologetic.

The exact opposite of Steve, whose head popped up from where it had rested on his hand, his eyes wide and horrified. "Oh no! Mine doesn't either. I'm so, _so_ sorry!"

Bruce just shrugged. "These aren't even my clothes."

"Well, I have _lots_ of pockets," Clint drawled, and he picked a piece of glass out of his boot, which was littered with them. Tony vaguely recalled that he had crashed through a window. "But all my money, ID, and credit cards are in New Mexico."

"You cheap bastards," Tony said incredulously, but not did not bother to hide his smile. "I carried a nuke through a wormhole, saving your asses, as well as the city and _possibly_ the whole world...and you expect _me_ , a billionaire, to pay for your dinner?"

*******

"I've paid for a lot of dinners since then," Tony observes now with a grin. "And it's been my pleasure. You lot have been my best investment."

"Yeah?" And Clint looks almost happy. Then his eyes dart back.

"Now you tell me one. A good memory. Come on! Right now, Barton!"

He is yelling again, and the man to Clint's left makes an offended sound. "If you don't mind, _some_ of us are trying to think," he says, and something about his tone of voice rings an unpleasant bell in Tony's mind.

"Yeah? Go fuck yourself, Guy, I'm not talking to you! Get your own conversation and bug the hell out of ours!" Tony can't see the man but hears him scoff again, then fall mercifully silent. Tony claps his hands together once, loudly. "Clint! Good memory! Now!"

Clint flinches, then sighs, and says hesitantly. "Phil. _He's_ my happy memory."

"Okay, that's a nice start," Tony encourages, but he's actually bothered. Phil Coulson is dead, and very dangerous emotional territory for Clint Barton. Any mention of the man is a minefield that none of the team, save Natasha, usually dares to wade through.

"Phil always--" Clint continues, but then his eyes focus on something in the distance, and he gasps. "Tony, look behind you!"

"What? Where?" Tony twists around the best that he can, can only see more of the gray fog behind them.

"Sorry--to the side, I meant. Like, look farther up the river. Way, way, waaay up there. See that guy? Doesn't that guy kind of look like Steve?" He points excitedly, his eyes wild and hopeful.

"No, he doesn't, he doesn't at all." The man looked like nobody, was just a vague shape. Tony supposes Clint is just seeing what he wishes he would see.

"He does!"

"Steve isn't here, Clint. That's not him."

"It's him! It is!" But this time Clint doesn't sound so sure, and lowers his hand.

The excitement drains from his face, replaced by an unhappy frown, and Tony suddenly wishes he had humored him, had played along instead.

*******

The river in front of him is wider than the section of it in front of Tony. Clint doesn't know what to make of that, but there's... _something_ to it. There's some meaning there, but he hasn't figured it out yet. The man that looks like Steve in the distance, the river being wider in some places than others--they're related somehow, but his mind can't piece it together. Not yet. He will. He just has to give it some time.

 _You, figure it out_? Dad sneers. _You're too stupid to figure anything out_!

That isn't true. He's not as smart as Tony, perhaps, but Tony is a genius, so that means that almost no one is as smart as Tony. There's no shame in being only as smart as everyone else in the world. He can figure it out. He's good at fixing things, at puzzles, he always has been. Phil had said Clint was the cleverest man he had ever known, and Phil never lied.

 _I didn't know there were people there. I swear to you I didn't_.

"I believe you, Phil," Clint's whisper is a low sob, as it had been then. He had believed him, because to think otherwise was impossible. Could Fury send them in, to murder innocents? Of _course_ he could. Fury could be heartless in the name of Shield. But not Phil. That could never be true.

_Fire. The flames are high and the night sky above has turned orange. There is a rustle as bats pour out of the high areas of the building. Some are flying on burning wings._

"I'm sorry," Clint whispers as he stares at the water, watches the hospital burn again.

Clint doesn't know what Tony sees in the river; he only knows that they do not see the same things. Tony stares defiantly at the sky, at the ground, at the others around him. Clint sees him sneak a peek only occasionally, and his eyes dance immediately away, as if the images hurt. And they well might.

The dark haired man to his left watches the water angrily. He mutters about lost opportunities, about disappointments. "Why?" he says under his breath. "Why? Why? Why?" He looks up and his eyes meet Clint's. "I did the best I could," he says petulantly, and his voice is louder and tinged with disbelief, with despair. "Didn't they understand that I did the best I _could_?"

"I don't know. I hope for your sake that they did," Clint answers, and turns away from him.

He doesn't like that man, not at all. He wishes he would go away, but the man is trapped as surely as they are.

"Please don't talk to me anymore," Clint adds, and the man frowns at him.

"But I did the best I could!"

"I said, don't _talk_ to me." It comes out louder than he intends and Tony looks over sharply.

"Is that asshole bothering you again?" he asks, then leans back and shouts around Clint. "I thought I told you to leave my Tweetie alone, fella!" The man scowls, though they can't see each other. "Shut your cry-hole if you don't have anything positive to contribute!"

The man returns to his muttering, and Clint goes back to watching.

*******

Tony's yelling seems to stir the woman next to him, to get her revved again just when she had finally, blessedly, fallen silent.

"Have you seen my babies?" she asks, wringing her hands, and he groans.

Tony read a play once called "No Exit" and he doesn't remember much about it, except that the conclusion had been _Hell_ _is_ _other people_. And he knows now that it is true. Because this crying woman on one side is bugging the everloving shit out of him, and Barton crumbling to pieces on the other side is scaring him to death, and being stuck between the two of them indefinitely will certainly drive him insane sooner rather than later.

"Give it a rest, come on, I'm asking you nicely."

She makes a moaning cry. "I have to find them before their father gets home."

And _that_ gets a reaction out of Clint, reaches him in a way Tony has not been able to for awhile. He recoils at her words, sitting back high on his knees and covering his face with his hands. "Can't she _stop_?"

"He'll be here any minute! Where are they? I can't find them!" the woman wails, reaching toward the water.

"Tony, make her stop already!" Clint rocks himself back and forth on his knees, palms screwing into his eyes.

It's too much, all of a sudden, these mirrored mourners on either side of him. He can't bring himself to snap at Clint, though he wants to--he needs to _save_ Clint, not break him further--so he turns toward the woman instead and screams "Your goddamned babies aren't here, lady!"

"I just want my babies!" she sobs again and then abruptly stands up, and if Tony weren't mystically rooted to the ground he would have fallen over in astonished surprise.

"Clint! Clint, look at her! She's up, she got up!" Tony gestures wildly in her direction, all adrenaline and hopeful excitement, but Clint doesn't look, doesn't uncover his face.

She stands there unsteadily for a moment, then pitches headfirst into the water. Her hair streams out around her in a brown fan, her arms stretched wide. Clint's hands fly away from his eyes at the sound of the splash, he sees her then, his mouth a perfect O of shock.

She rolls over, floating face up toward the sky, crying again, and Tony reaches out instinctively to catch her, leaning as far as he can. Her hand raises from the water for one moment, fingers stretching toward his.

"My babies," she whispers, and suddenly her hand is gone and she is formless, is just another face, washing down the current away from them.

Oh. Fuck.

And something is torn straight from Tony's soul as she disappears, screaming soundlessly.

*******

Time gets funny, after that. Tony is quieter for awhile. Clint is glad; it's easier to concentrate without Tony talking to him all the time.

So many faces float past him, and Clint is waiting. Waiting for the one he hasn't seen in so long, the one he barely remembers, because he doesn't have many memories, only has one small picture to remember her by.

_Dad. Dad. Phil. Barney. Dad. Loki. Dad. Children from the fire. Dad. Barney. Trickshot. Dad. Phil._

Every face that drifts by is a sear of pain in his heart, but he watches, waiting...where is she? Where is Mom's face, why is she not here in this river with the other ghosts? The images come faster now: Dad looming over Barney, who huddles fearfully; Trickshot yelling; Fury saying _We didn't know_ ; Phil promising _I'll always be here for you_.

And there, on the edge of everything, near the opposite shore of the river, he suddenly can see her. His mother. He's almost sure it is her. Her face was always sad, always scared, but now she looks like she's smiling a bit, and his heart gives a lurch; Mom hadn't had many merry moments in her short life. The face is far, and hard to see. He leans forward, trying to get closer, straining to see her.

 _I haven't seen you in so long_ , he thinks. _Please, for a second, let me see you smiling at me_.

He hears faint screams in his ear. He thinks someone is calling his name.

 _That's my bad ear, can you say that again_? he hears a childish voice say, and sees himself, young, in the river, with big sad eyes and dirty fingernails, in clothes passed down from Barney that never fit right, holes already worn into the knees. He wrenches his eyes away from the image, that's not him, not anymore, looks for Mom again. She's still there, in the distance, rippling in the water. He leans forward again, reaches for her with a trembling hand.

 _Clint! Clint_! she's saying, and he gasps hopefully, but the voice is wrong; it isn't hers. It's far away, but he thinks it's a male voice shouting his name, and maybe a little familiar.

The mouth of the watery boy in front of him moves, and he hears himself whisper "That's my bad ear" but this time out loud, this time for real. It's hard to hear from his right side. Dad had been a lefty like Clint, and his sons' heads his favorite target, and now Clint can't hear so well on the right, and how many times does he have to tell people that before they remember?

"That's my bad ear, can you say--" adult Clint and boy Clint whisper together.

"HAWKEYE!" And now the shout is louder, very loud, coming from right beside him, and things blur painfully into focus as he realizes that it is Tony, Tony screaming his name.

"What? Tony...what's...wrong?" Clint says groggily, and his voice is sluggish, like a machine that has been powered down and is slow to restart.

Tony's eyes are huge and terrified. "You were practically throwing yourself in the water, you stupid bastard! What the hell were you _thinking_? You were sitting there forever like a zombie and then your face was like two inches from going in. You almost gave me a heart attack, you dumb shit!"

"I'm sorry." The words come a bit easier now, and it feels like his brain is coming back online. He shakes himself a little. The figures still course by in the river, but they don't seem to be pulling at him as hard now. The distant image of Mom is no longer there, if it ever had been. "I thought I saw...something."

"I thought we agreed that looking in the water was bad, very bad. Did you NOT see Miss Dodo Brains float away earlier?" Tony's voice is shaky. "Don't be like her, don't do that again, stay with me. Stay with me."

*******

It is going to happen again, it's just a matter of time.

Clint had almost gone in, almost tumbled right into the water, as Tony had watched helplessly. He had shouted, then he had screamed, had only been barely able to rouse him out of whatever stupor he had been in. And now they keep their eyes on one another, try to keep a conversation going, but Tony can see Clint's eyes darting back to the water, the first time only for an instant, then for a moment, and then again and again, for minutely longer periods each time.

Tony will figure it out. He'll find a way to free them. He won't let Clint go under, to disappear like the brown haired woman.

He sees his friend fidgeting anxiously, tracing the long scar that runs down his forearm, and Tony winces, remembering. And hadn't  _that_ night been a horrorshow--Clint nearly bleeding out, Steve and Tony afraid for him, Pepper crying, Natasha thundering through the situation.

"Why did he do it?" Steve had asked later, and Natasha's face was tight and closed off as she answered "Because of Loki" and didn't elaborate further. Now Tony knows there had been more to it than just Loki, but at the time they barely knew one another, and it was all the information she had trusted them with.

Tony sees an image of Clint in the water, as he had looked that night, all white skin and red blood, his eyes rolled back in his head.

 _Don't think about that_ , he chastises himself immediately. It ended happily, it ended with Clint alive, getting better, that's what matters. He can think about that part. Clint disappeared for awhile and then came back as if nothing had happened. Bruce hadn't liked that, the way no one mentioned it, said it wasn't healthy, but Natasha insisted it be that way and it seemed to work out. Clint hung around the edges of things for a long while, gradually becoming more comfortable and integrated.

Tony had been in the gun range on one of those early days, morosely studying his targets--he was depressingly less accurate without his Iron Man tech--when the archer appeared, seemingly from nowhere, as if he had peeled himself out of the paint on the walls and taken form.

"Want some pointers?" he asked, and his face was open, his smile dazzling.Tony hadn't known Clint well, not then, still knew him better as a fighter, as Hawkeye, at that point. He didn't realize at that time, the way he knew now, that those big cheerful grins were about 90% fake, Clint's own special way of hiding, his perfectly honed camouflage.

 _So friendly_ , that smile said. _Love me. Don't you just love me_? And people did, they really did. They loved the mask that Clint slipped on so effortlessly. And at the time it had put Tony at ease, as it was meant to, made him brush away a suicide attempt, made him believe it was a passing thing that wouldn't be repeated, made him smile back.

"Are you as good with a gun as you are with a bow and arrow, Old School?"

"I'm good at _everything_ ," Clint assured him, and Tony laughed. "My first question for you is this: are you shooting that gun or looking at targets?"

"Right now? Right now I'm busy berating myself."

"Okay, so basic firearm safety...if you're not gonna shoot that gun, get your booger hook off the boom-boom switch."

Tony had blinked in surprise, then laughed delightedly when he puzzled it out, and moved his finger away from the trigger in an exaggerated motion. "Ohhhhh, I'm keeping you. You're a poet, Barton. A wordsmith. You're Keats. You're Shel Silverstein. You're Robert fucking Frost."

"Wait till I start sharing limericks," Clint said with a wink, and this time his smile was different, because it was one of his real ones.

"I'll get us out," Tony says to Clint now, but his eyes are on the river. "I'm gonna get you out of here. I'll bring you back. I can bring everyone back."

*******

It wasn't their usual kind of assignment, they were meant for gathering information, for taking out threats; their skillset put them beyond this, beyond simple arson. Natasha had been unhappy about it, but Clint had shrugged his way through the mission briefing. It would be easy, at least, a nice change from their last few missions, which had included shocking levels of violence.

Shield was changing, swinging to extremes. It was becoming something darker, something harder, than it had been in the first years, when he had joined as a younger man. Not long before the hospital fire they had sent him to seduce a mobster's wife and bug the house, and he had done it. The following week they sent him back to strangle the same woman, and he had done that, too; she had let him in the door eagerly and then died with a look of sad disbelief in her eyes.

Shield would have never asked him to do something like that before, but now it is something that is done regularly, something he and Natasha have both done. Shield has them spy on honest politicians these days as often as the crooked ones. Has ordered them to do terrible things that have torn at their hearts.

But nothing like this. Nothing like the hospital fire. He sees it in the water, all orange and red in front of a black sky.

"Tell me about it," Tony begs. He keeps talking, keeps pushing, won't let Clint drift. "Tell me about the fire, and then...then you can let _me_ carry it. You won't have to. You won't have to think about it anymore."

That's not the way the real world works, and probably not the way this watery one does either, but he's never told anyone about it, and he wants to. He has barely even discussed it with Natasha, because even though it was years ago the pain is still too fresh, too new. An open wound between them that has never healed.

"They said it was empty," Clint says. "That there was no one there, that it was just an abandoned building. But it wasn't. We didn't look enough. We didn't know. Fury said, and _Phil_ said, and we believed them. Should have known better, because why else would they send _us_? But maybe they didn't know either. Maybe they really didn't. And we didn't look. We just _did_."

The words are coming out fast and the narration is all choppy, maybe not making much sense, and Clint looks down and he can see it, see the flames climbing. A tear drops from his cheek and is lost in the coursing water.

"I set the charges and she detonated them. We sat in the grass and watched to make sure it happened right. There were people inside. A lot of people. Homeless, I guess, seeking shelter. There were kids. I can't forget the sound of them screaming as they ran into the night, most of them burning. It was too late to take it back. We couldn't make it unhappen. Phil said they didn't know. They said they didn't, that they were sorry. I had to believe that, because we're the good guys. Right? We're the good guys."

"Oh, God, Clint."

 _I didn't know_ , Phil whispers from the water. _I swear that I didn't_. His face changes, becomes harder, not the real Phil anymore. _But why didn't you do better? Why didn't you check for yourself? One more floor down and you would've seen them. Why didn't you look everywhere_?

"I'm sorry," Clint says and more tears fall. "I'm so sorry." He can't forget it, the way they burned. The way Natasha stood beside him and screamed.

"It happened," Tony says, "but it's over. Let it go, Clint. Let it wash away." He stretches his hand out as far as he can, trying to reach Clint, though he knows he cannot. "Look at me. Look at me!"

He can't.

"I'm so sorry," Clint whispers again.

*******

Tony isn't giving up, not yet. He sings every song he can think of, loudly. Recites nursery rhymes, tells stories, avoiding fairy tales--he never realized quite how dark they all were until now. Digs deep to remember every time he ever smiled.

One day the Avengers had gone to an amusement park; it was off season and Tony had rented the entire place out. All Stark Industries employees and their families were invited; tons of children poured in, their inclusion making the day brighter. Clint and Natasha even convinced some friends of theirs from Shield to come along--all arriving rather humorously at staggered times in unmarked cars.

Tony and Bruce rode roller coasters together until Bruce actually threw up, which Tony found hilarious, even more so because the coaster's automatic camera had caught the money shot. Later he had the picture blown up and framed professionally, titled "Vomit Fountain: a Study of Pizza and Root Beer", and hung it in his lab. He subtly brought Bruce's attention to it at every opportunity.

Clint had played carnival games all day, totally in his element, throwing rings over milk bottles and darts at balloons with his usual scary accuracy, making the grizzled carnies scowl at him. Kids gathered around and he happily won them whatever huge stuffed animals they excitedly pointed out.

Tony remembered Natasha, crammed into a Ferris Wheel seat alongside Thor, primly eating cotton candy and actually smiling. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and her cheeks were flushed; she looked carefree and girlish, not at all like someone who otherwise went by the name Black Widow. Thor was really too tall for the seat, folded in so snugly that his knees almost knocked his chin. His booming laugh could be heard throughout the whole park, so infectious that people strolling by could not help but laugh with him.

But the best part of all was when he and a recovered Bruce had made their way to the bumper cars only to find them already in use. Captain America was grinning from ear to ear as children shrieked and targeted his car with glee. One driver especially aimed for him again and again, and Tony had almost fallen down dead from shock when he realized that the vehicle was being operated by none other than Nick Goddamned Fury, who crowed with delight at every hit.

Tony smiles to himself now, closing his eyes, seeing a grinning Nick Fury instead of a gray sky, instead of flowing water. "Remember that time at World of Wonders? When Bruce puked? God, that was hilarious." He opens one eye to peek at Clint, who has actually heard him and is smiling faintly back.

"Natasha and I went in one of those photo booths, took funny pictures. I still have them." He sways a little on his knees, back and forth, repetitively. Tony can't tell if it's a self comforting thing; it looks like one, and he hopes that it is. They need some comfort. "Kids were happy; I was good at the games. They were all rigged, but I knew how to do them right. Because...because I was in the circus."

Tony doesn't know much about Clint's time in the circus, it is seldom brought up, but he knows enough to know that it was a bad thing, and dangerous to discuss here. As dangerous a subject as Phil Coulson, maybe moreso. "Don't go there! No siree! No running off to the circus for Clint Francis!"

Clint wrinkles his nose in distaste at his middle name, looking so much like his old self that it makes Tony laugh. "It wasn't all bad." He smiles a little, remembering. "When I would hit the target, make the really showy shots, people cheered and clapped. The roar of the crowd was so loud I could feel the vibration of it even through the ground."

Some darker thought seems to chase that one, and his smile fades. He rocks himself harder back and forth, arms around his chest. Back and forth.

Tony holds onto the amusement park. Thinks of a happy Natasha, a smiling Steve. Thor bellowing laughter as the Ferris Wheel turned. Bruce, always good natured about constant teasing. Clint dealing out teddy bears to eager, childish hands.

They have to get across the water. Tony's almost positive that's the key. If he could just move, just stand up, he could grab Clint, drag him across. Find the others.

Because maybe Clint is right. Maybe that guy down the river _is_ Steve, maybe the others are stuck here too. If they are, Tony will find them.

He can save them all.

He has to.

*******

"Best frieeeeeends," Tony sings, finding that sweet spot between authentic and obnoxious. "Best friends, always gonna be toge-e-therrrrr! Clint and Tony, braving this foggy wea-ea-therrrr! Clint is so smart, he is so sexyyyyy! He gives all the boys apoplexyyyyy!"

"Keep it down, I'm trying to think!" the man on the other side of Clint snaps, and Tony waves his middle finger cheerfully in the air, hoping the man can somehow see, keeps singing.

"Clint says potato and I say po-tah-to, he says tomato and I say to-mah-to, because we have disagreements sometimes and it's okay because we make up soon after and everyone forgives each other out of love and because that's what friends are foooooooor!"

"That...doesn't even...rhyme," Clint grits out, and Tony pumps his fist in triumph. It's getting harder and harder to draw the archer back in.

"Yeah, well, I'm freestylin' here." Tony is running out of material, but his mouth always seems to find something to say, even when his brain doesn't want to cooperate.

He takes a large breath to begin again when he suddenly hears his father's sigh in his ears. _Tony, you're giving me a headache. Can you go and do that somewhere else_? _Jarvis, take him out._

Tony's smile does not fall from his face--it crashes.

 _Too loud_ , Mom says, sounding tired. _Too much_.

"That's not fair!" Tony calls out angrily, spreading his arms in scandalized disbelief. "I'm not looking at it!"

 _Take the suit off_ , Steve says, _and what are you_?

Tony winces at that. He doesn't feel like singing anymore. And what difference does it make? Clint doesn't notice one way or the other what Tony does or does not do; he keeps rocking and whispering to himself.

Tony leans down, glares angrily into the river. "I wasn't even _looking_ at the water, you shit! You're cheating! That's not fair!"

And now that he is really looking the images come rapidly, as if making up for lost time. They show him the jet going down. Clint's arms curling around his head, bracing for impact. He hears JARVIS murmuring. Screams from behind them. Metal groaning.

 _Why couldn't you fix it? Why didn't you save them_?

Pepper frowning. _This just isn't working, Tony. I need you to be in this with me. You love being Iron Man more than you love me_.

"I don't," he tells her, and it's stupid, because that is not Pepper, he knows that, but she looks so sad and so real. "But I have to be Iron Man, because how else can I save them?"

Rhodey shakes his head. _You can't save everyone, Tony_.

"I can, though," Tony whispers vehemently. "I can, I can make it right."

He can. He'll tell everyone that, as many times as he has to, until they all believe him.

He's slipping, can't stop himself.

The woman, crying, "Where are my babies?"

The man beside Clint, muttering a barely audible "But I did the best I could!"

Clint, himself, steadily repeating "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

What will it be for him? What will the great Tony Stark repeat into the rest of forever, what simple statements will he distill himself into, until he can say them no longer and finally throws himself into the water?

Because he knows that part will be easy. That he can't stand up, can't move, until the moment he decides that it is time, time to go in. When he decides that the memories and fears are all there really is, and casts himself in. Because he knows then, and only then, will it be easy to stand.

 _So what's your nightmare, Stark_? he asks himself. _What shell is left, when everything else is stripped away_?

He looks at the river, ignoring the danger in it. Sees Pepper. Rhodey. Steve. Bruce. Dad. Mom. Clint. Natasha. They look back at him before they float away. Then they appear anew. They look disappointed. They look angry. They look sad. They disappear.

They leave. They leave him behind.

"What did I do?" he asks. Why do they look at him like that? Whatever it was, he didn't mean it. He never means it.

Pepper. Her hand is tantalizingly close, and he could almost reach out and grab it, pull her out and keep her with him. His hand stretches out toward the water. "Don't leave me."

He sees them hurt. Bleeding. Scared. Crying. He could have done more. He's a genius, he should have thought of a way to save them.

"I can make it right."

Tony tries one last time to think of shawarma, of the amusement park, of Bruce's funny picture.

He can't.

He can't see Natasha in his mind, eating cotton candy. He sees her in the water instead.

"I can make it right," he tells her.

*******

It's on fire, the water is on fire. Children running, screaming. A mother with her baby. All on fire. He wants to put his hands over his eyes, but that's not right. He should be made to look. He did it. He should be made to see.

Other things, too, other images drift by. A man on his knees, pleading for his life as Clint nocks an arrow.

 _He deserves it. He deserves to die_. Had he? Clint had believed that then, but now he isn't sure. Shield had said he deserved it. That the man was a terrible person, that the world was better without him. Shield was never wrong.

Except when it was.

The mobster's wife _. You were so sweet to me,_ she says, her eyes accusing and sad _. My husband never was, but you were, and when you came back I was so happy to see you. You strangled me in the bed we made love on the week before._

"I'm so sorry," he tells her. 

Dad's face. It hurts to see, and not just because he hates his father, but because he is still afraid of him all these years later, stupidly afraid of a man long dead. It also hurts because he sees now that he has grown up to look just like him--the same cheekbones, the same nose, the same downturned mouth. He's glad his mom isn't there in the water anymore. She would be afraid if she could see him looking back at her with Dad's face.

His wrist burns and Clint looks down, sees the long white scar that runs down his forearm. Sees himself running his knife down it, the flesh just parting, melting back so easily, as if it had been _wanting_ to, waiting to. It was a month after the Battle of New York, and the thrill of surviving, faint as it had been in the first place, had faded completely, leaving him only with dark memories of Loki and the chasm of Phil's absence. He felt empty and it was painless and he had intended to start the other arm when Natasha had burst in, had stopped him.

She had cried--only the second time he had ever seen her cry in all the years he had ever known her. Even at Phil's funeral she had remained stoic, dry eyed, despite her heart being as broken as his. But when she saw Clint bleeding, knife in his hand, she had shrieked at JARVIS to send help, and wrapped his arm tightly in a towel and cried while they waited.

"I can't lose you both," she wept. "It'll kill me, Clint. I can't lose both of you."

It had been alright, in the end, she made it be alright. The others did not talk about it and Fury had been kind, told him to accept help. And Clint had done the best he could, talked to a doctor, taken medicine, done everything he could, had done it the right way. He had done it for her, because he loved Natasha every bit as much as he had loved Phil.

She had saved him then, saved him before, saved him afterwards, again and again. Had saved him in every way a person could be saved.

 _Natasha_.

He blinks suddenly, and things tilt a little bit. Where is she? She had been on the jet. They all had been, except Thor.

Tony is here. Steve is off in the distance--Clint is still sure of it, despite Tony's disagreement, is still so sure that is Steve. The three of them are here, so where are Natasha and Bruce? Farther away, perhaps, too distant to be seen?

He sees Mom again, in the water at the edge of the opposite shore, waving. He's pretty sure that she wants him to come over, that he's supposed to cross to the other side, that this is the test, to see if they can make it. Fall in the water, or throw yourself in, and you are washed away. Make it to the other side and...what? He doesn't know, but he suspects it is better than floating eternally downstream past agonized, kneeling figures.

His part of the water is wide. Tony's is narrower. The water by Maybe-Steve is narrower still, not far across at all.

_Because you are worse, because your sins are greater than theirs._

A whimper breaks from his throat at the realization, and he wants to push it away, but he can't, because he knows it is true. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."

_Natasha dancing. Her eyes dance, too, when she laughs. She doesn't laugh often, or easily, but he knows what to say, how to tease her the right way to win a smile out of her. Every grin, every laugh, is his personal victory._

"Tell me something happy," Tony had said, and this is it. This is someone real, someone alive, someone still out there, and she is real and she makes him happy and she is _out there somewhere._

The water in front of Maybe-Steve is narrow. So narrow that it could probably be stepped across, almost certainly by someone with legs as long as Steve's. Tony could jump across his, perhaps, if he can stand. Clint's...well...it will be difficult. But maybe he can do it. He can at least try. He can do that.

Because if their section of the river matches their guilt, matches their fault, and Clint's is a wide expanse, then Natasha's must be vast, must appear to her to be an ocean, because her life was long and dark before she joined Shield. He pictures her, kneeling beside it, seeing endless water, thinks of how hopeless she must feel.

"No." The word rips from his throat, louder and more raw than his constant _I'm sorrys_ had been and beside him Tony twitches minutely. "Not Natasha. No."

And it takes everything, everything he's ever had in him, every piece of him that ever resisted Loki, that had ever stood up to his father, that had ever questioned Shield, had ever fought to live when everything in him whispered to give up and die--it takes everything he has, all of it, but he does it.

Because she means more to him than his self loathing, his guilt.

He does it for her.

Clint rises to his feet.

*******

Tony's face turns up toward him, horrified, looking for all the world like a lost little boy and not at all the brash, arrogant man he presents to the world.

"Clint!" he cries. "Don't do it, don't leave me!"

Clint reaches out his hand, but he can't get any closer to Tony, even now. "Come with me."

"I can't! Don't do it, don't go in!"

"I'm not going to, I'm going to find Natasha. I'll be back, I swear."

Clint takes off running, and he's just...gone. Tony can't see him moving past the other kneeling figures, because he isn't there at all.

Tony gives a strangled cry, turns his face toward the river, sure that Clint has thrown himself in, that he'll see him any second, drifting down, screaming silently, as the woman had done.

_You weren't enough to make him want to stay, to keep himself from going in. Why didn't you do more?_

"I'll catch him," Tony moans. "I'll pull him out. I'll save him."

_He's gone. How can you fix it now?_

"I can," Tony insists. "I can make it right."

There is no one beside him anymore, just the man who had been on Clint's other side, and he's pretty far away. Tony is alone.

For now. Because others will come, will come and take the empty spots beside the river.

That thought stills him. Clint isn't here, isn't in the water, but Tony slowly realizes that if he watches long enough, he _will_ see him there, whether Clint threw himself in or not. Because it is all of their fears, and some of it is real, and some of it is not, and the longer he sits here the harder it will be to tell the difference.

Tony knows then that he could never have saved Clint. He had tried, had tried the whole time, shouting and screaming, weaving fantasies, telling stories, trying with every breath to engage him. None of it had worked.

But Clint had stood, had run away.

Tony had not saved him. He had tried.

 _It's you, it has to be you! Make yourself stronger, make yourself faster, make yourself better and bring them back. Bring everyone back. All of them_.

Clint had done it on his own. He had saved himself.

_How are you going to make it right?_

"I can't," Tony says, his voice incredulous.

_They'll be lost. What will you do, when you're alone? When you're alone and you know it's because you didn't do enough?_

"Then I guess I'll be lonely," he says, and a tear trickles down his cheek. He wipes it absently away.

_Steve. Bruce. Natasha. They are here somewhere. Clint might still be here somewhere, maybe even lost in the fog. You have to find them. Bring them back._

"I can't," Tony says again, and this time his voice is stronger. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

Because he knows he cannot do it, no matter how hard he tries. That, like Clint, they will have to save themselves. And he has to accept that.

And Tony finds that he can stand.

*******

When Tony wakes up, he can't move.

But then Steve helps untwist him from the hospital blankets snared around his legs, unwinds the IV tubing where he has tangled in it, and he can. He can move again.

"The jet crashed," Steve says, his hand feather-light on Tony's arm. "But we're okay. Everyone is okay."

"Did we go down in a river?" Tony asks, and Steve just pats him gently, as if he thinks Tony must be confused. Which, in fairness, he sort of is.

"No. It was rough, but the Hulk had his arms around Natasha when we hit; she wasn't even hurt. And me, you know, I was cut up but I'm already fine. Hulk pulled what was left of the jet off of you and Clint."

"Is he here, is he okay?" Tony pushes himself up into a sitting position and, ugh, stitches pull everywhere and everything hurts.

"Yeah, he woke up before you did. Your concussion must have been worse than they originally thought; you were out forever. Clint is in pretty bad shape; he broke some bones in his neck and arm, but he'll be alright. Natasha is with him."

"Of course she is." Tony grins weakly.

"Pepper should fly in late tomorrow morning," Steve tells him, and that is the best news of all.

He drifts on a sea of drugs for awhile, then wheedles Steve into spoon feeding him jello. Captain America rolls his eyes but does it, and that alone tells Tony how close they had all come, how afraid Steve had been. Bruce stops by later to fuss over Tony, looking a little guilty that he escaped the crash totally unscathed.

As night falls Bruce and Steve decide it is time to leave, wishing him a good night's sleep and promising to be back tomorrow. Tony closes his eyes for a few minutes before he decides that, yeah, there's no way in _hell_  can he bring himself to fall asleep.

He grabs his IV pole and hobbles down the hallway, peering into rooms until he finds Clint's. The archer is in bed, looking rather pathetic with a neckbrace and his left arm casted all the way to his armpit. Natasha is there, hovering protectively nearby, as if afraid someone might come and snatch him away from her.

"Hey!" Clint says, and his voice is rough but the smile is his happy, real one. "About time you woke up, Iron Man. You look horrible. Almost as bad as me." He sounds pretty cheerful for someone who was just in a plane crash.

"Please," Tony snorts, plopping down in one of the plastic chairs. He crosses one leg over the other with as much dignity as anyone can have while wearing a hospital gown.  "You don't look so bad."

"Are we comparing ouchies? Because my _neck_ is broken, you dick."

Tony scoffs. "It's just cracked a little. Don't be such a baby. You should see my stitches. I have more than all of the rest of you combined. I made Steve count, then had Bruce double check the math."

Natasha looks Tony over with a skeptical eye. "You do look terrible." Her fingers comb absently through Clint's hair, and he smiles up at her devotedly. "You should go lay back down. It's late, and both of you need some sleep." 

"I'll pass," Tony says with a shudder. "I've _been_ asleep, and didn't enjoy it. I had bad dreams."

And the smile slips from Clint's face, and his good hand reaches for Natasha's.

"Me, too."

********

 

_Epilogue_

 

"Was...was none of it real?" Clint asks, much, much later. His voice is strained, and Tony can't decide what he should say, can't imagine what Clint is hoping he will hear.

Tony decides to go with the truth, as far as he knows it. "I think some of it was real. I think the feelings were, at least."

"It was horrible," Clint says, and Tony laughs ruefully, because _that_ they can agree on. "But I can't regret it totally, because I got to see my mother smiling at me, real or not. I got to see her, and it had been so long." His face is happy and heartbroken and wistful all at once.

"I'm glad for that," Tony says, and he is.

"I don't remember her happy," Clint goes on, "because she never was. She was...always too broken, always too scared. I don't remember her happy, but she must've been sometimes. Everyone has at least one good memory they can cling to, right? To keep them going?" He looks at Tony hopefully.

"Yes. _We_ did, after all. Maybe she did, too."

"This is the only picture I have of her," Clint says, and plucks a worn piece of paper from his pocket, unfolds it carefully. "They didn't let us have anything from the house when we were taken away, but I found this years later, online. It's from a newspaper. It's their wedding announcement."

He hands it to Tony, a grainy image on a piece of paper--a short woman standing next to a tall man, both of them smiling. The man is the spitting image of Clint, has the same happy, crooked grin. If Tony didn't know otherwise he would never believe that this smiling, good looking young man could ever terrorize his family, beat his children, kill his wife.

And Tony's heart skips a beat when he focuses on the woman's face. Her eyes are shaped like Clint's, and though the picture is in black and white, he knows that they were the same bluish gray as her son's, because he had seen them for himself, staring back at him, full of tears.

Had heard her whisper " _My babies_ " as she cast herself into the water.

"Wasn't she pretty?" Clint asks as he takes the picture back, looking at it fondly.

"Yes," Tony answers, and hopes his smile looks genuine. "Yes, she was."

**Author's Note:**

> "Ophelia" is a painting by British artist Sir John Everett Millais, based on the character from "Hamlet". It is beautiful and haunting; take a look if you have never seen it. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ophelia_(painting)


End file.
